


a lack of good mirrors

by whooves



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bodyswap, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, enjolras is a dork, mature rating is for masturbation yayyyy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whooves/pseuds/whooves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who are you?" Enjolras asks, in a voice that isn't his. He slams a hand over his mouth, feeling scruff that is definitely not his and his eyes get wider, if possible. </p><p>"Grantaire," his own body says, "I'm Grantaire. And I think we've switched bodies."</p>
            </blockquote>





	a lack of good mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Abigail](http://vivelarepublique.tumblr.com/) for (extensive) betaing, and to [Alana](http://fahrouche.tumblr.com/) and [Allison](http://masterandcaptain.tumblr.com/) for all of their feedback! (You guys are my favorite.)
> 
> Title from:
> 
> “I'm starting to realize that people lack good mirrors. It's so hard for anyone to show us how we look, & so hard for us to show anyone how we feel.”  
> ― John Green, _Paper Towns_
> 
> Alternatively titled: "a situation in which google is completely useless"

“No, I’m not going to participate in your rally,” Grantaire drawls. (It’s a lie; he’s already designed the posters and painted the banner.)

“And why not?” Enjolras sneers, slamming both his hands on the table. He ignores the pain that stabs deeper than any anger he feels.

“Because,” Grantaire begins lightly, “No matter how many people you get to listen to you, no one is going to follow up. People just like the initial feeling of being into something, when it’s new and cool. In a week or two, no one is going to care. Just you. Save your time, take a nap, watch Game of Thrones reruns. What you do won’t matter anyways.”

"Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying." Enjolras spits the words out like venom, his nose inches from Grantaire’s own. The other man searches Enjolras’s eyes, looks for something, but doesn’t seem to find it, because his expression shuts down and he sinks in on himself. When he sits back down, he doesn’t even raise his glass to his lips and he doesn’t bounce back to teasing with his usual resilience. Enjolras himself feels hollow.

"You will see," is all Grantaire replies. He whispers, like he isn’t sure what he’s saying is true, or perhaps like doesn’t want Enjolras to hear. Enjolras lowers his eyes, slightly ashamed, but not enough to retract his words. He takes a step backwards and runs a hand over his face.

“Meeting adjourned.” Enjolras says, but no one moves. The room is silent for a moment as Enjolras shoves his books into his bag.

“I wish the two of you would get along,” someone says quietly. Enjolras can’t tell who says it, but as he looks around the room, everyone else appears stunned as well. The quiet voice was too loud to be just one of his friends commenting on his interactions with Grantaire.

The man in question is already bolting out the door, so Grantaire misses the confused looks all his friends share. Enjolras is not far behind him, not bothering to wait for Courfeyrac and Feuilly.

The October weather is chilly, and Enjolras turns up his collar against the wind. He can see Grantaire’s back as he makes his way down the street in front of him. He moves to follow him, in the direction of the nearest metro stop, but already knows what would happen. They would end up waiting together and then end up sitting opposite each other in the car. And then because Enjolras can’t resist an opposing view, especially when angry, they would fight loudly in the enclosed space. Or worse - he would have to look at Grantaire’s hurt face the whole way home, knowing he was the cause, while simultaneously not knowing how to fix anything. 

He never knows how to fix things when Grantaire is part of the picture. Instead he flounders and argues and makes things infinitely worse.

In the end, Enjolras opts to take the bus instead, but a few stops down from the Musain. He passes two or three stops before finally remembering that walking the whole way would take him at least an hour. So he waits at the nearest stop and replaces guilt with anger, and lets the rebellious thoughts run rampant.

When the bus comes, he takes a seat upstairs in the front, so he can watch the city streets rush past. He leans his head against the window and he follows the full moon with his eyes all the way home. It’s big and yellow and, for some reason, extremely unsettling. 

He shakes the feeling and thanks the driver as he gets off, especially since he’s the only one on the bus this late at night. When he gets into the apartment, Grantaire’s bedroom door is already shut and he can hear pounding music blasting from inside. He thinks about knocking, about apologizing, but pushes the feeling down and lets his anger stew instead.

He slams his bedroom door loud enough for Grantaire to hear it, even through his music. 

Enjolras rides the anger out, shoving on his headphones as he finishes an essay, the second half considerably more argumentative than the first had been.

After a couple hours, he finally rubs his face and shuts down his computer, taking deep breaths in order to calm himself down. Grantaire just gets to him in a way no one else does, gets right under his skin where Enjolras makes the best efforts to keep people out. He can’t help fighting the sinking feeling that this latest fight about Saturday’s rally had been more...explosive than usual, and got way too personal, way too fast.

Enjolras shouldn’t have attacked Grantaire like that. _But he deserved it, right? It’s true, isn’t it?_ He sighs. _No, it isn’t._

Enjolras takes a long time to fall asleep, and when he does, he sleeps restlessly.

***

Grantaire wakes to an alarm that isn’t his, and he reaches groggily for the phone on the bedside table in order to stop the jarring sound. As far as he can remember, he hadn’t gotten drunk and gone home with anyone, so why isn’t he on his bed, in a room where the windows are blacked out? And fuck, why is he waking up at eight on a _Thursday_ , a day when he doesn’t have class until noon? He turns off the alarm on the iPhone and puts his face back into the pillows, groaning.

But his voice doesn’t sound quite right. He groans again, and it’s definitely higher pitched, not as raspy or deep. He must be coming down with a cold or something.

Grantaire has four hours until he needs to be in class, but now that he’s awake he definitely has to go to the bathroom, and since he’s up, he may as well work on his project for figure drawing class. 

Or, a voice in the back of his mind says, he could go mass print the posters for the rally, which he’d designed two weeks ago. (Not that Enjolras knew, although Grantaire had mentioned something in passing to Combeferre, so that they didn’t seek talent elsewhere.)

He swings his feet out from under the covers, and jumps off the bed.

However, the distance is much farther than he anticipates and so he instead falls to his knees on the floor. Also, the flannel pajama pants he’s wearing are not the boxers and t-shirt he usually wears to bed.

These are also not his hands in front of his face; they are too slender, too pale, and the grip of them is definitely different. He can also see them clearly, which is new. Does he not need contacts any more?

Is he drunk? Drugged? Grantaire’s head begins to spin and he leans his head against the edge of the bed in an attempt to calm down. When he sees blonde curls hanging down the sides of his face in his peripheral vision, Grantaire stops breathing completely for a moment.

He _knows_ that hair. He's stared at it for countless hours, drawn from memory, and even braided it once or twice when Enjolras was tired and agreeable. 

Grantaire stands up slowly and turns to the mirror, his curiosity getting the better of him. The first thing he notices is that he is, in fact, not in his own room. The bedspread is red, and the curtains are cream, and the large bookshelf next to the closet is much more orderly than his own. 

The closet mirror draws him in, because something must be wrong with his eyes. Grantaire steps closer to the mirror, convinced he must need glasses, no matter how clear things seem to look.

And the closer he gets, the clearer things become.

He's Enjolras.

That is to say, he is in Enjolras's body.

His body is slender yet muscular, with the script _liberté egalité fraternité_ looping around his left bicep, a tribute to Enjolras's heritage. His hips are so narrow and his flannel pants hang so low that Grantaire can see a sliver of pale skin. He stretches his arms upwards to get the cricks out of his back and his shirt rides up.

Well, he's certainly awake now.

The first thing he does is make suggestive faces in the mirror. It's absolutely absurd to see Enjolras make those faces and Grantaire strikes a number of poses before sliding his hands down his body to the waistband of the flannel pants. He wonders how pleasure looks on Enjolras's face. 

Grantaire has a brief moral dispute with himself, and he settles for just pulling out the waistband of the pants and briefs and taking a good look. (He'll see everything in the shower anyways. He knows that's a bullshit rationalization, but he's in Enjolras's body and he'll be damned if he's not going to take advantage of that.)

After checking Enjolras's schedule, conveniently tacked on the wall by his dresser, Grantaire reckons he has enough time for a shower and coffee before he has to wake up Enjolras and ask him what the hell is going on before Enjolras will undoubtedly make him attend classes.

But definitely take a shower first, because Enjolras has some terrible bedhead. He grins at the thought and heads to the bathroom. 

Taking a shower is weirdly different when he's someone else - someone taller, skinnier, and with no paint to wash out of his hair.

(And if he slicks himself up with soap and gets himself off while staring at Enjolras's heavy lidded face in the frosty glass, well, no one has to know about that.)

When he gets out of the shower and wraps a towel around his hips, he ponders how well he's taking this. Enjolras is going to go berserk, especially when he wakes up in a body like Grantaire's.

At this, his mood sinks.

To top it all off, Enjolras is probably still angry about last night. He pushes that to the back of his mind and goes to dress.

Seeing as he gets to look at Enjolras in the mirror all day, he dresses to please: Enjolras's tightest black pants, some wisp of a white t-shirt and the infamous red blazer. Red Converses complete the ensemble, and he ties back Enjolras's curly hair in a braid. When Grantaire smiles in the mirror, pink lips curl up enticingly, but falter upon remembering the gravity of the situation.

***

Enjolras wakes when someone shakes at his shoulders. He moans groggily before looking at the phone on the bedside table, balking when he can't see properly, until someone makes a soothing noise and slips glasses on his nose (Glasses? He doesn't wear glasses.). Enjolras then sees the time come into focus and sits straight up in bed only to get a good look at himself staring back at him.

He's dressed, with his hair done and looking more unsure of himself than he ever remembers feeling before in his life. 

But Enjolras is not looking in a mirror.

Enjolras flails, sending covers and blankets and books every which way. He backs himself against the wall and looks wide-eyed at the man in front of him.

"Who are you?" Enjolras asks, in a voice that isn't his. He slams a hand over his mouth, feeling scruff that is definitely not his and his eyes get wider, if possible. 

"Grantaire," his own body says, "I'm Grantaire. And I think we've switched bodies."

"You seem supremely unconcerned by this fact." 

“I’ve already had a shower and a cup of coffee.” Enjolras glares at him. Grantaire grins. “You have terrible bedhead, and I really wanted some coffee.”

“I have to be at a class in half an hour,” Enjolras spits out, and gets off the bed to start rummaging through Grantaire’s closet.

“And you think you can go to class as me?” Enjolras stops in his tracks and turns around.

“All my teachers know me by name and face,” he says, and looks horrified.

“I assumed as much. Can you miss any of them?” Grantaire is obviously doing his best to be soothing and non-argumentative. 

“No,” he bites out, “absolutely not. Participation points, discussion points, and I want to intern at Professor Lamarque’s firm next year.” Grantaire is taken aback.

“So…” Grantaire trails off.

“So you’ll have to go to class. As me.” Enjolras digs through Grantaire’s closet and fishes out a clean button-down.

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously.”

“No. I mean, seriously, you’re going to wear that? As me?” Grantaire is still sitting on the bed and casually leans back on his elbows, watching his own body from across the room. 

“What’s wrong with this?” It sounds so strange to hear Grantaire’s voice come out when he speaks. Absolutely surreal.

“Have you _ever_ seen me wear a button-down?” 

“Well then what would you suggest?” Enjolras tosses his hands up and rolls his eyes. 

Grantaire busies himself with digging in his dresser, fishing out a pair of ratty (but clean) jeans, and a t-shirt that won’t offend Enjolras’s sensibilities. He also tosses his paint-stained blue hoodie onto the bed for Enjolras.

“You want me to wear this?”

“Well, you have figure drawing and studio later. Might be able to miss studio this once, but you’re going to have to go to the other.”

“I can’t-”

“If I have to go to _your_ classes, you have to go to mine. Just angle your sketchpad away and no one will bother you.” At this, Enjolras sighs in defeat, but acquiesces. 

“You should get going,” Enjolras says as he dresses. “My messenger bag is already packed. I’ll text you my laptop code.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. “Here’s your phone. I figured that wouldn’t raise too much suspicion, as we both have iPhones anyway.” Enjolras tucks the phone into his pocket, visibly relieved to have at least one piece of his own life with him.

“How do I look?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire tosses him a gray beanie. He shrugs.

“You look like me. You have to go print flyers.”

“Flyers? For what?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and grabs a pen and Post-It note off his desk. He watches Enjolras’s hands scrawl down in his own looping scribbles the name of a building as well as the name of the woman at the copy desk.

“Flyers for the rally.” Grantaire shoves the Post-It note and a flash drive at Enjolras, who only gapes. “The flyer is the only document on there. They’ll print them for me for free; they like me. I was going to get two hundred, but you could probably ask for two-fifty if you think you’ll need them. I have to get to some boring history class, so I’ll text you.” Enjolras is still gaping, and Grantaire sighs. “Try not to panic; we’ll figure this out.”

Not that they have much of a choice. 

Enjolras closes his mouth and nods. If Grantaire says they can figure it out, he wants to believe that they will.

*** 

After a few too many wrong turns and awkward conversations with anyone who looks vaguely like a Katherine, Enjolras finally manages to find the copy desk and get the flyers printed. 

And the flyers are gorgeous. They’re better than gorgeous: they’re perfect and witty and engaging, and Enjolras starts hanging them up as soon as he gets the stack.

So far, being Grantaire isn’t that difficult, especially on a day when Grantaire doesn’t have class until after noon. Enjolras can’t help but grin all the way to figure drawing, walking through the doors with Grantaire’s sketchbook tucked under his arm. He enters trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, pulling pulls the beanie tighter down on his head as he hurries to the side of the room.

Enjolras sets the sketchbook on an easel and sits down with a sigh. He runs some searches on his phone, but can’t find anything on bodyswapping other than the movie _Freaky Friday_ and a list of times the trope has been used in various media. From what he can tell, he and Grantaire need to go through some character change, featuring grand gestures, show they’ve gained some respect and mutual understanding in order to be returned to their proper bodies.

The more he reads, the more Enjolras feels a bit lightheaded, because he’s pretty sure Grantaire will never appreciate him, let alone understand what he’s trying to do. Grantaire won’t even _listen_ to him; all he ever does is interrupt and make scathing remarks.

They hadn't fought this morning, but then again, Grantaire had left promptly in order to get to class on time.

In Enjolras's body.

He runs his hands over his eyes, trying to wake up from whatever ridiculous dream he's having. However, when he reopens his eyes, things only go from bad to worse.

"R? Are you okay?" Eponine stands in front of him in a white robe. Enjolras didn't know she was an art major?

"What?" Enjolras replies, taken aback.

"You don't look so great," she says, concerned, putting a hand to his forehead. 

"Why," he stutters, "why are you, uh, wearing a robe to class?"

Eponine looks at him like he's just asked her to produce an elephant out of thin air.

"I'm modeling today," she says, a bit softer, as if she's speaking to a small child. "We talked about this the other day. I need the money; things are pretty tight for me and Gavroche right now. We can't rely on you all the time for food and babysitting."

Enjolras only nods like an idiot and lets her prattle on about something. He does his best to look vaguely interested when, in reality, he's just incredibly confused. 

He becomes a lot less confused and a lot more mortified when Eponine drops her robe and takes a position in the middle of the room. Nude. His cheeks immediately flush an embarrassing shade of scarlet, and he ducks behind his easel as quickly as possible.

Enjolras would like to say he did something besides hide behind his easel for the entirety of the session, but he can’t.

To Enjolras’s absolute horror, Eponine comes up to him after the class ends, though luckily after she has shrugged her robe back on.

“Let me see,” she says eagerly. Enjolras makes a noise that he wouldn’t deign to describe, hugging the sketchbook to his chest.

“No,” he squeaks. Then he gains a bit of traction. He puts on his best Grantaire smirk, along with and an air of nonchalance for good measure. “An artist never reveals his unfinished masterpieces.” He waggles his eyebrows and leans towards her. She raises an eyebrow, pauses for a long moment, and then laughs.

Enjolras lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and rushes out of the room before Eponine or anyone else can speak to him again. He rushes back to the apartment and doesn’t relax he’s there until he locks the door and leans against it, allowing himself to sink down to the floor.

“Are you okay?” Courfeyrac’s voice comes from the kitchen table, where he sits with a spoonful of yogurt halfway to his mouth. Enjolras swallows heavily. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Long day. Do you know if Gr-, um, if Enjolras is in?”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac nods back to the rooms, “he got in an hour or so ago. Have you guys talked since last night?” He stands up, only to walk over and offer a hand, which Enjolras takes in order to haul himself up. Courfeyrac doesn’t give him a chance to answer the question. “Listen, I know he’s been really harsh lately, but give him some time. He’ll come around. One day he’ll figure out why he argues with you so much.” Courfeyrac gives him a sympathetic smile.

“Really?” Enjolras replies, hoping he keeps the confusion out of his voice. What?

“Really,” Courfeyrac repeats, squeezing his hand before grabbing his yogurt and heading towards the TV.

“Well, then,” Enjolras says, and goes to his room. (Yes, _his_ room. Just because he’s in a different body doesn’t mean - well, whatever.)

He knocks, and hears his own voice tell him to come in.

“This is the weirdest fucking thing ever,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras makes a face. 

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just really odd to see me and not be me.” He pauses, and then sinks down onto the bed next to Grantaire. “I sound insane.” 

“That would mean we both are, and I’m pretty sure the only lapse of judgement I had today was taking thirty-four pages worth of notes.” Enjolras’s jaw drops.

“Thirty-four?” Even I don’t…” he trails off. Grantaire shrugs.

“I, uh, didn’t know what was important so I just copied down pretty much everything.”

“That’s...wow.” He expected less. Much less. He thought that Grantaire would just sit down, get the attendance credit, and possibly argue a lot.

“It’s nothing,” he shrugs, “how was figure drawing?”

Enjolras blushes.

“Eponine was modeling today,” he mumbles. Grantaire begins to laugh, and he doubles over after a minute and continues to laugh. “It wasn’t funny!” he protests, and Grantaire finally stops. His hair is falling out of the braid, and Enjolras’s red blazer is folded on the desk.

He looks more at ease in Enjolras’s body than Enjolras usually does.

“So,” Grantaire says after he’s calmed down, “how are we going to switch ourselves back. Don’t get me wrong, I love being blonde and beautiful, but…” he trails off and makes a vague hand gesture. Enjolras makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and falls back on the bed heavily. 

“I didn’t even know what to Google,” Enjolras says. “Body swap? There’s nothing real or serious, just details of what happens in movies.”

“Yeah. They all get switched back because of ‘mutual understanding’ and ‘love,’” Grantaire says, complete with air quotes.

“We’re screwed.” Enjolras sighs, and Grantaire goes very still on the bed next to him.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I guess we are.”

They sit in silence for a minute, until Grantaire’s phone buzzes next to him. He checks the screen and groans.

“Shit.”

“Don’t curse so much with my mouth.” Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“I forgot; I have to meet Joly for dinner. Well, you have to meet Joly for dinner.” He shoves Enjolras’s shoulder. “Get up.”

“Shit.” He tugs the beanie over his face in a mediocre attempt to hide.

“Yeah.” There is a long silence.

“What if we told him?” Enjolras is hesitant.

“Are you absolutely out your mind?”

“No,” he glares, “I’m out of my body. Seriously, Grantaire, you should know this.” 

Grantaire stares at him for a moment.

“That was-” he sounds hesitant.

“A joke, yeah.” He gives a weak smile, which Grantaire returns tenfold. It’s a very Grantaire smile to see on his own face.

He thinks for a moment that he would be able to tell that it’s Grantaire, just from that smile.

***

“So you’re…” Joly trails off, eyes narrowed.

“I’m Enjolras,” he says, out of Grantaire's mouth.

“And I’m Grantaire.” He slouches in his seat like Enjolras never would, and gives Joly an expectant look.

"Well guys, I gotta hand it to you, this is a really well-thought out and bizarre practical joke. Have you shown Courf yet? He'd be proud." Joly looks exasperated, but amused. Grantaire rolls his eyes and pulls Joly to the side. He leans in very close to whisper something in his ear.

Whatever Grantaire says to Joly must convince him, because he leans back with wide eyes and nods.

“Well, then,” Joly says. Enjolras wrings his hands together and moves his eyes from Grantaire to Joly, wondering what Grantaire had said. “Let’s go to dinner, then, I guess?”

Dinner is at a diner near the Musain, and it’s relieving to not have to keep up the charade. They toss ideas back and forth with Joly, but everything he says is relatively unhelpful.

“At least tomorrow’s Friday,” Joly points out. “And then you have the weekend. All we have this weekend is the rally.” At this, Grantaire and Enjolras both freeze. “What?”

“I have to speak at the rally,” Enjolras says slowly, playing with the mashed potatoes on his plate.

“No,” Grantaire says. “Absolutely not. No.” And Enjolras should have known better than to ask, Grantaire doesn’t believe that they can make things better, doesn’t believe in _him_. He winces, visibly, and stares at his plate. But Grantaire has to try, they need a fourth speaker and Enjolras is supposed to be that speaker. They won’t be able to find someone else on such short notice.

“Grantaire, please,” Enjolras pleads. “I have notes and everything. I can coach you through it, we can practice. Please.” Grantaire gives him a long, agonized look, and Joly laughs.

“Now that is definitely a Grantaire expression,” he notes, and Enjolras rolls his eyes. Joly only laughs harder.

“Do I have a choice?” Grantaire asks weakly. Dejected is not a good look on Enjolras’s face. “I guess I can try.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras swallows and looks back at the table. He doesn’t want to make Grantaire uncomfortable. Frankly, he’s surprised Grantaire gave in so easily. But this is so, so important to Enjolras that he’ll take what he can get. Grantaire probably wasn’t even planning to be at the rally. But he had designed the posters, even before he fought with Enjolras at the meeting about the futility of their efforts.

It’s always about futility. _No, Enjolras, no one is going to care. It’s not going to make a difference. Nothing we do is going to make a difference._ Grantaire has never shown the slightest bit of belief in him, only shouting caustic remarks, rebuffing every argument. 

These thoughts follow him all the way home, trudging along next to Grantaire with his hands in his pockets.

“You okay?” Grantaire asks him. He shrugs in response and opens the door to the apartment. After making plans to wake up at nine and talk about the day’s schedules, Grantaire bids him good night and shuts Enjolras’s door carefully behind him.

Again, his sleep is restless. He wakes up every hour or so and is only awake long enough to ascertain that he's still in Grantaire's body before falling back on his pillow.

When he wakes at nine and finally rolls out of bed, he still has ridiculous brown curls.

However, he also has a considerable amount of stubble. The beginnings of a beard are scratchy on his chin, a feeling very alien to him. He runs his fingers over the stubble and grimaces before heading to the bathroom.

A razor and shaving cream are easy enough to find; Grantaire, Enjolras, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac each have their own designated drawer in the bathroom. After he gets them out, he lays them on the sink and stares at them. They're intimidating. And sharp, in the case of the razor. He doesn't really fancy putting the sharp razor near his neck. Especially since he's never had to shave a day in his life.

He wipes the shaving cream off with a towel and goes to knock on his door. As he raises his fist the door swings open and he nearly collides with Grantaire.

"I need your help," he says. Grantaire smiles and leans one arm against the door. Enjolras has never really realized how much taller he is than Grantaire. He has to tilt his head up to meet his eyes, as they're only a few inches apart. 

"Really?" He drawls, and smirks down at Enjolras. The smile is so distinctly Grantaire and so... _cute_. It doesn't look quite right on his own face, (and he'd much rather see it on Grantaire's).

"I need you to shave my face. Um...your face."

Grantaire laughs, and ushers him into the bathroom with a gallant gesture. He shuts the door behind him.

“Did you wash your face?” Enjolras nods, but Granatire wets a washcloth anyways. He wets Enjolras’s face, well, his own face (and Enjolras has a moment to be confused at how he’s ever supposed to be able explain this), before smoothing shaving cream down his neck and up mid-cheek. “This is weird,” he murmurs, as he makes short strokes down Enjolras’s neck. “I’m used to just looking in the mirror.”

Enjolras stands stock still, unwilling to even flinch.

“Relax, blondie,” Grantaire sighs. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just holding a sharp blade to your throat.” He laughs. “Well, my throat.”

“I’m not blond right now,” he grumbles, but can’t help but let a small smile peek through. Grantaire is as good at putting him at ease as he is throwing him off-kilter.

There faces are in very close proximity and the situation would be weird if it weren't already so weird. Grantaire would make a joke about baby-faced Enjolras and then Enjolras would roll his eyes and concentrate on the side of Grantaire's neck which is actually very distracting. (However, it happens to be his neck right now, so he can't exactly be distracted by it.) Grantaire would smile, Enjolras would smile, they'd lean in, bump noses, try again, and... wow, Enjolras is getting carried away with this narrative inside his head. He's pretty sure he's blushing, but if he is, the redness is well-enough hidden under the shave cream and remaining stubble.

He isn't sure where those traitorous thoughts are coming from, but he pushes them away and counts the tiles on the bathroom wall while Grantaire finishes shaving his face. When he’s done and Grantaire warns against razor burn, Enjolras beckons him to the kitchen and they sit down for breakfast.

“Feuilly and Courfeyrac?” Enjolras questions. He isn’t too keen on anyone else knowing about their predicament; they’ve already told Joly and are nowhere closer to being switched back.

“Feuilly has the morning shift and Courfeyrac spent the night at Combeferre’s.”

“Courfeyrac and Combeferre?” Enjolras is confused. “When did that happen?”

“They’re _your_ best friends, you’re telling me you haven’t notice they have been sneaking around behind our backs for a month now?” Grantaire rolls his eyes and gets up to make coffee when the ready light comes on.

Enjolras sits and stares at the whorls of the wooden table. He thinks back on the past couple months and more than a few things click into place.

“Well, that does explain a lot.”

Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras wonders how anyone could mistake that expression for his own. If he really looks, Enjolras thinks he would always be able to recognize Grantaire.

He sounds corny, even in his head. 

“So, how does my day look?” Grantaire asks, sipping his coffee. He sets Enjolras’s red mug down next to him. Enjolras thanks him, and shrugs.

“I only have history, but you can skip that.” He pours milk into his coffee and contemplates Splenda but ultimately decides against. When he finally looks up, Grantaire is staring at him like he’s grown an extra head. He rolls his eyes. “He puts the lectures online. Plus, I believe this counts as ‘extenuating circumstances.’ I don’t have to be there today. What about me?”

“I don’t have Friday classes.”

“Oh,” he pauses. “I didn’t know that. I’m always around the apartment on Fridays, why do I never see you?” Fridays are break days. He literally sits in his room or on the couch in pajama pants and watches movies all day. (Enjolras also drafts email and letters to state legislators, but that’s close enough to leisure for him.) The weekend is often filled with ABC Society activities, so he takes his rest time before then. 

“I usually sleep in and then stay in my room, or go boxing with Bahorel and Joly.”

“Joly?” Boxing? _Joly?_

“Yeah, we’re teaching him a few things.”

“Oh. Well, we should do things on Fridays, if we’re ever both around.” Enjolras resolutely looks at his coffee and ignores Grantaire’s heavy silence, plowing on instead. “Fun things. Like museums and...stuff.” He finishes weakly.

“You would want to go to a museum with me?” The question comes out choked, and his head tilts, sending golden curls tumbling to one side.

“Yeah.” Enjolras smiles, and tries to look confident. 

“Oh. Okay. Yeah. I mean yes, that would be cool. Um...maybe after we switch back, though?”

Enjolras blushes and nods obligingly. _Did he just ask Grantaire out? Was that what that was?_

“Yes. Definitely.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Today we should probably look at how to fix ourselves, so I can maybe talk at the rally tomorrow instead of you having to do it.”

“We’ve both already done Google research, what more is there to do?” Grantaire whines. Enjolras winces; does he really sound that way? It’s more than a bit grating, and Combeferre definitely hears that voice most days. Combeferre has also never rebuked him for whining like that, which means Combeferre is obviously a saint. Enjolras should buy him chocolate. (But maybe not until he changes back.)

“I don’t know. Witches, real psychics, ancient magic?”

“Psychics aren’t real.”

“Out of all the things I mention, that’s the one you think isn’t real?”

“Courfeyrac took me to see a psychic once. The less said about that, the better.”

“Fair enough. How did Courfeyrac take it?” 

“He laughed the whole time, and had to leave the room because he couldn’t contain it when she started telling me about the mansion I was going to own in Malibu.” At this, Grantaire laughs as well, dropping his head to rest in his hands, shoulders shaking.

“Okay, so no psychics,” he says when he’s composed himself. “So what are we going to do all day?”

“Well, you have to meet with Combeferre and Courfeyrac later, for rally prep. Tradition.”

“You have a tradition...for the night before rallies?” Grantaire phrases it as a question, but he is obviously not surprised. 

“They help me perfect my speech!” He folds his arms and frowns.

“Oh. Okay. So we should probably go over that before then. You said you had notecards?”

“You can’t use them at the rally, but I figured they might be helpful.”

“To start, yeah. Shouldn’t be too much of an issue though. Bullying is something I can definitely speak about from experience.” 

“Even though you don’t believe we can change anything,” Enjolras sighs.

“I don’t think people are as inherently decent as you give them credit for. But I’m willing to help out on behalf of those who I know are good people.” Enjolras stares at him, blinking in confusion. Grantaire points at him. “That’s you, Enjolras.”

He looks down at the table and smiles. 

***

“We haven’t really seen you in two days,” Combeferre says. “Are you okay?”

Grantaire nods, dropping his messenger bag on Combeferre’s couch.

“Did you apologize to Grantaire?” He looks expectant; he folds his arms and waits for a response. Grantaire flounders a moment - Enjolras had never actually apologized, but he never really expected him to either. 

“Yes. Well, kind of. We’re okay, at least.” Combeferre gives him a strange look.

“Good.” He pauses, booting up his laptop. I know you don’t really mean the things you say, but sometimes you can be so cruel to him. Have you ever thought about why he gets under your skin so much?”

“Probably because he’s trying to,” Grantaire shrugs, taking a shot in the dark. Combeferre laughs, and slides onto the couch next to him. 

“That is certainly true. But I get the feeling there’s a reason why you care so much.” He nudges Grantaire’s shoulder with his own. “Think about it, Enjolras. Okay?”

Grantaire nods in agreement, and wonders how on earth he’s supposed to explain this to Enjolras, when he doesn’t even understand what’s going on. 

“Now, do you want to go over your speech before Courfeyrac gets here to be your cheering audience?”

Grantaire nods and stands up, launching into the speech Enjolras has prepared (with a few additions and a few lines taken out, to polish it up). Combeferre is attentive the whole time. It’s only about a seven minute speech, but Courfeyrac arrives halfway through and sits on the couch next to Combeferre, giving him a kiss on the cheek in greeting. Grantaire smiles internally but plows on, finishing strong. When he reaches the end, Courfeyrac lets out a loud whoop and Combeferre applauds.

“That was great,” Combeferre says, a little surprised. “Nearly airtight. None of those holes we usually have to close up.”

“It also sounds distinctly like-” Courfeyrac begins, but Combeferre jabs him with his elbow.

“Like what?” Grantaire prods.

“Like you did a lot of editing,” Combeferre says. “Well done, Enjolras. I don’t know that we need to do much of anything. Maybe change a few words here and there. I think you have a statistic wrong at the beginning.”

“Okay,” he nods. “Easy enough.” A pause. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

“It is much better than your speeches usually are the night before you make them.”

“Can we order Chinese now?” Courfeyrac asks, already moved on. Grantaire doesn’t miss Combeferre’s fond smile when he hands Courfeyrac the menu and a phone.

“Chicken and broccoli for me,” he says. “Enjolras?”

“Chicken fried rice is fine.”

So Grantaire eats with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. It's pleasant and easygoing, even as Grantaire pretends to be Enjolras. 

Grantaire wishes he had friends like Courfeyrac and Combeferre.

No, he's not being self-deprecating, he knows he has friends, and knows Combeferre and Courfeyrac are two of them. But they're so comfortable around Enjolras - they give him easy touches to his hair, tell good-natured jokes, and there’s none of the strain Grantaire ever feels with his own friendships. (Here's the point when Joly pets his hair and tells him that's what anxiety does to you, but that doesn't make the feeling any less real.) 

When he gets home, Enjolras is waiting for him on the couch, legs crossed and dressed in an oversized sweatshirt.

"Courfeyrac?" is the first thing he asks, when no one comes in the door after Grantaire.

"Said he had to stay behind to discuss anti-bullying websites and distribution of pamphlets." Grantaire rolls his eyes.

"So that means he's sleeping over again?"

"I would assume yes. And Feuilly is spending the night at Jehan's."

"I never realized how much time we spend alone together in this apartment." Grantaire chuckles and nods.

"Sure seems like it."

"So," Enjolras begins, feigning nonchalance, "how did rehearsing the speech go?"

"It went well, I think. We only edited statistics and a few phrases. Combeferre said it was better than usual." He tries not to blush. "I uh...made a few edits to your arguments before I showed them."

Enjolras narrows his eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing extreme, just some little holes I sured up. Now no one like me can throw stones."

"Like you?"

"You know, cynical. Incapable of belief." As soon as the words are out, he regrets them. It’s callous and feels too much like fishing for an apology (even if he may deserve one).

"I didn't-" Enjolras looks pained, and he reaches out to Grantaire as if to touch him. Grantaire cuts him off, and sinks onto the couch next to him.

"Mean it. Yeah, I know." He tries to smile, but he's afraid it just comes out as a grimace. "Combeferre says I just get under your skin."

"Well," he tries tentatively, "that's not untrue."

“I’m sorry.”

“No, _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t get worked up so easily.”

“I probably shouldn’t provoke you.”

“Most of what you say is true,” he mumbles, pulling his knees up to his chest. Grantaire raises his eyebrows.

“Well, that’s news to me.” They sit on the couch for a few long, silent minutes. Grantaire pulls his hair out of the braid and tucks it up into a messy bun. A few stray curls hang in his face and he tucks them behind his ear. It’s weird, having something resembling bangs.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Enjolras asks softly, breaking Grantaire out of his mundane thoughts. “Since you can’t really go out drinking tonight?” He sounds hesitant, and apologetic.

“Sure, just let me change into sweats.”

When he returns, he brings blankets from his own bed. Enjolras is in the kitchen, so Grantaire takes a look at the sizable DVD stack next to the TV, and pops one in. 

“What did you choose?” Enjolras asks, two mugs in hand.

“ _The Princess Bride_. What’s in the mugs?”

“Tea,” he smiles, lifting the mugs in toast. He sets them down on the coffee table. “ _The Princess Bride_ is one of my favorites.” He pulls one of the blankets around his shoulders and leans back against the couch.

“I know,” Grantaire says. He looks at the couch, with Enjolras sitting nearly in the middle (although it looks like Grantaire is sitting in the middle of the couch - and no, yeah, that is still the weirdest) and he can’t tell if he’s supposed to sit on the chair or incredibly close to Enjolras on the couch. The mugs are in the middle of the table though, so he assumes the couch, and only freaks out for about two seconds before settling down next to Enjolras, who immediately pulls another blanket over both their legs. 

Enjolras obviously wants him to spontaneously combust. There is no other explanation for the way he sits with his arm and leg pressed along Grantaire’s. It’s more than a little disconcerting, because it’s Grantaire’s own body that’s sitting next to him, but he _has_ had stranger experiences with a variety of hallucinogens. 

Enjolras laughs at the funny parts and shakes his head at Prince Humperdink and as the movie progresses, Grantaire finds it progressively easier to relax against him, his muscles losing their tension. (How is it that he's nervous around Enjolras even when he’s in Enjolras's body?)

He finds himself drifting off before the end of the movie - he completely misses the sword fight at the end, which is one of his favorite parts. When he wakes, the apartment is dark, and he's leaning both back against the couch and against Enjolras's shoulder. Well, his own shoulder, which is to say that he is indeed still in Enjolras's body.

“Wake up,” he says, punctuated with a nudge. Enjolras awakes violently, flinging blankets on the ground and jolting to his feet. Grantaire laughs, and picks up the blankets from the floor.

“What is it?” Enjolras asks. His hands run through the mop of inky curls on his head as he yawns.

“It’s late, we have a rally tomorrow. Time for young revolutionaries to be in bed.” 

After all, he has a speech to give tomorrow.

***

Enjolras goes to the rally with Feuilly, the banner tucked under his arm. Grantaire had told him about it last minute with a small smile before running out to meet Combeferre for another tradition: pre-rally coffee.

All of their friends are meeting up early to help set up, as well as one of the childhood education groups on campus. The rally is actually rather well-planned. The ABC Society is co-sponsoring, and they have a local principal speaking, as well as a member from each campus group. They even have a high-school student speaking out against the bullying he had encountered in elementary school. 

If this rally goes well, hopefully they can pursue an outreach program in the local elementary schools. Enjolras is determined to make something come from this: they have all the right support and all the right resources.

Alas, for now he’s stuck with setup and handing out literature to those who want it. He sees Grantaire up near the small platform, chatting with the other group. He smiles. Inter-group relations are important, and this other group could be a real asset for them.

Grantaire’s banner is set up on the fence behind the platform. It is, of course, fantastically done. 

The president of the co-sponsoring club speaks first. She greets the small crowd and talks about the different booths set up nearby. She then discusses the importance of a safe educational environment, and how bullying affects this environment and is detrimental to learning.

Then it’s Grantaire’s turn to speak. (Well, _technically_ Enjolras’s, but three people know the truth of the situation.)

Grantaire seems to come alive when he speaks. He is passionate and caring and wonderful, and Enjolras is captivated instantly. He sees his own golden hair almost glowing in the morning sunlight, but it is only secondary to the force of nature Grantaire becomes when on the stage.

Of course it is a cause that Grantaire is not indifferent to; he is not heartless. However, this kind of passion and enthusiasm cannot be faked. He matches, no, _exceeds_ Enjolras's usual fervor. Grantaire obviously truly cares about what he says. He cares enough to fix Enjolras’s talking points, emphasize what should be known. Grantaire has put real effort and heart into something he believes in.

Something warms in Enjolras’s chest.

Grantaire’s eyes are shining, and he almost looks like he’s about to cry on stage. Enjolras can’t help but think that maybe if you care too much, it’s easier to pretend that you don’t care at all.

A lot of things make sense now, the last few puzzle pieces falling into place. 

Enjolras isn’t sure why it’s taken him this long to sort out feelings he’s obviously been dealing with for months, but now that he knows, he’s done waiting.

Grantaire finishes his speech to a moment of silence, and then thunderous applause. Many people are nodding and whispering to each other. Enjolras sees one parent kneel down to his kid and ask a question. It’s nothing short of moving.

When the principal of the elementary school takes the stage, Enjolras doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy weaving through the crowd to get to Grantaire to even think that it would be polite and proper to listen to the rest of the speeches.

People part easily for him, and when he reaches the edge of the platform, he whisks Grantaire away from Courfeyrac and his congratulatory remarks. Combeferre is not far behind, but Enjolras manages to wave him off, too. He drags Grantaire to a spot behind the portable toilets and stands in front of him, suddenly not knowing what to say. 

“Not up to your standard?” Grantaire looks confused, disappointment darkening his features, as he starts wringing his hands together. “I really thought-” Enjolras cuts him off before he can go any further.

“You were amazing! You are always amazing! I, of course, would very much appreciate it if you didn’t keep calling our causes futile in meetings, but…” he trails off and avoids eye contact. Grantaire has a dumbstruck look on his face.

“What?”

“I know that you care,” Enjolras says. “I can see it now. You wouldn’t get under my skin so much if you honestly didn’t care about the things we- that _I_ believe in. But for some reason, you think it’s foolish to believe things can get better, and so you pretend not to give a damn about anything. About politics, about social issues, and about yourself.” 

“Enjolras-” Grantaire looks wounded, but Enjolras grabs his hand and looks him directly in the eye.

“I believe in you. You are so important, and I believe in you. Even if you don’t believe in me and what I do, I believe in _you_.” His voice raises at the end, almost breaks.

Grantaire doesn’t say anything for a moment, but he bites his lip, and squeezes Enjolras’s hand.

“I have _always_ believed in you,” he says.

When they meet each other’s eyes, that’s apparently all it takes, because after a moment of swirling vertigo, suddenly Enjolras is looking down at Grantaire, not up at himself. He smiles and steps in close.

“Woah,” Grantaire says.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, breathlessly, head still spinning for multiple reasons. “Woah would be accurate.”

“Corny would also be accurate.” Grantaire shrugs while he says it, but smiles too, and Enjolras can’t help but laugh. “Reciprocal belief and understanding. Who knew?”

“It’s almost like something out of a movie,” Enjolras muses. He doesn’t let go of Grantaire’s hand.

“Almost,” Grantaire says.

“Almost?” Enjolras echoes him, hand tightening on Grantaire’s ever so slightly.

“Well,” Grantaire looks down at their hands, blushing. “If we were in a movie, there would probably be some big ending. You know, winning the big game, learning some life lesson. The big kiss.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says. “And that’s…”

“Stupid. Hollywood tropes.” Grantaire takes a big step away, slipping his hand out of Enjolras’s. Enjolras is frowning. “What?”

“But I want to kiss you,” he says. Grantaire blinks a few times, and cocks his head in confusion.

“Sorry, I think I heard you wrong. Could you say that again?”

“I said I want to kiss you, if that’s okay. It doesn’t have to be now, it could be whenever. Or never, if you don’t want to...” he trails off awkwardly, hoping Grantaire will fill in the silence.

“Just clarifying - you are asking to kiss me because you want to, because you want me. Not because I made a very convincing, passionate speech, and not as some thank-god-this-body-swapping-thing-is-over-kiss? This isn’t just a one-time thank you kiss, right?” The words seem to pain him. 

“What? No!” He almost yells, and Grantaire flinches back. “Um. What I mean is that I’m hoping it’s not a one-time thing. I like spending time with you, and I’d like to do more of it. With kissing. If that’s okay?”

Grantaire is breathless for a moment before clearing his throat. “Of course it’s okay, why would you even ask?" His tone borders on giddy. “Can we start now?”

“Now is good,” Enjolras grins. “But not behind the portable toilets, preferably.” Grantaire laughs and tugs on his hand, leading him away from the throng of people and towards the parking lot.

They end up by Courfeyrac's car, and Enjolras takes Grantaire's other hand in his own. Strange to think they were his own just a few minutes ago. 

"Is this spot more to your liking?" Grantaire's hold on Enjolras's hands tightens as he pulls himself closer.

"I suppose it will have to do," Enjolras replies. Before Grantaire can return with another snarky remark, Enjolras is pulling their bodies flush and kissing him.

Grantaire bristles underneath him in surprise and then goes soft. Enjolras frees one of his hands to fit it against the small of Grantaire's back. Grantaire makes a happy noise into his mouth and Enjolras smiles again, breaking the kiss. 

"When I said we should do things on Fridays, I meant as dates. Well, I didn't think I did then. But now I do. Is that okay?"

"Okay, yes. Clear, not exactly, but definitely okay." 

Enjolras kisses him again and Grantaire laughs. When they finally move apart, they have an audience. Courfeyrac is clapping and Combeferre looks pleased. The expressions of their other friends vary from extreme surprise to incredible smugness, and Enjolras swears he sees Eponine hand money to Joly.

"Is this why the two of you have been so odd for the past few days?" Feuilly narrows his eyes. 

Enjolras looks at Grantaire, who laughs.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, that's it."

***

**Friday**

“Oh, that looks familiar. Van Gogh, right?” Enjolras turns to Grantaire with a smile.

“Yeah. He was an interesting guy, I guess. Memorable, with the whole ear thing. _Starry Night_ is at the MoMA, we can check that out some time if you want. They also have Dali’s _Persistence of Memory_.” He curls an arm around Enjolras’s waist as they stroll through the rooms.

“Persistence of what?”

“It’s the surrealist piece with the melting clocks.”

“Ah, yeah. What about _Liberty Leading the People_? Where is that?” Grantaire is completely unsurprised that Enjolras asks about that painting.

“France.”

“Oh.” He sounds slightly disappointed, and Grantaire pulls him closer to his side, as to better drop a kiss into Enjolras’s curls.

“Yeah, not so much a Friday trip. Come on, I want to show you some of the sculpture stuff.” Enjolras makes an approving sound as Grantaire takes his hand, and he lets himself be led.

“Maybe one day, we can go,” Enjolras says tentatively as they stand in front of a marble bust. “To France, to see it,” he clarifies. Grantaire smiles.

“Just one day?” He smirks, and Enjolras rolls his eyes. Grantaire laughs. 

“You know what I meant, Grantaire. Stop being difficult,” he mutters, through a blush.

“Yes, I did,” Grantaire replies with a smirk, “And I think we could, some day.” The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles at Enjolras.

They do.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to [come say hi](http://grantairely.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
